Day Watch

by Сергей Лукьяненко

  There was no answer.

  "Silence signifies agreement," I said decisively, putting the little Astra Cub back in my purse. The ideal weapon for a frail woman… although Pavel had had to carry it through customs. I walked toward the gates and the Nissan roared and set off back the way we'd come. I hoped the failed rapists and robbers would have enough sense not to attempt any kind of revenge… But then, a couple of days later I wouldn't be concerned about local petty bandits anymore.

  And so 1 arrived at the Artek camp, where I was supposed to restore my health, at two in the morning. "To sup light broth," as Karl Lvovich had said as he signed the necessary authorizations.

  Every exemplary Soviet Young Pioneer was supposed to do three things: Visit Lenin in his mausoleum, take a vacation at Artek, and tie some little Child of October's necktie, then after that he could proceed to the next stage of his development-the Komsomol.

  In the course of my brief childhood career as a Young Pioneer, I had only managed to fulfill the first point. This was my chance to make up for one of the things I'd missed.

  I don't know how it was in Soviet times, but now the exemplary children's camp had a serious look to it. The fence around its territory was in perfect order, and there were guards at the entrance. I couldn't actually see any weapons… not at a first glance… but the strong young guys in militia uniform looked serious enough without them. There was a kid of about fourteen or fifteen there too, looking completely out of place beside these guardians of order. Was he perhaps a hanger-on from the old days, when the bugles were sounded and the drums beaten as the neat ranks of Young Pioneers marched to the beach for their prescribed water therapy?

  To be honest, I'd been expecting a lot of bureaucratic red tape. Or at least considerable surprise. But it seemed like it wasn't the first time that Young Pioneer leaders (although now my job had the simpler title of teacher) had arrived at Artek at two o'clock in the morning in a foreign automobile. One of the guards took a quick look at my documents-they were genuine, checked and approved in all the appropriate offices, certified with signatures and seals-and then he called over the kid.

  "Makar, take Alisa to the duty camp leader."

  "Uh-huh," the kid mumbled, looking me over keenly. He was a good kid, with no complexes. When he saw a beautiful young woman he wasn't afraid to show he was interested. He'd go a long way…

  After we left the guards' hut, we walked past a long row of stands with lists of daily activities, announcements of various events, and children's wall newspapers… what a long time it was since I'd seen wall newspapers! Then we set off along a badly lit path, and I found myself trying to spot the traditional Soviet plaster statues of boy buglers and girls clutching oars along the sides of it, but there weren't any.

  "Are you a new leader?" the boy asked.

  "Yes."

  "Makar." He held out his hand in a dignified manner.

  "Alisa." I shook hands with him, barely managing to restrain a smile.

  The difference between our ages was about ten years, or maybe twelve. But even the names showed how everything had changed in that time. Where were all the girls named after Lewis Carroll's Alice now? They'd gone the way of the plaster buglers, the Young Pioneer banners, the lost illusions, and the failed dreams. Marched off in tidy columns to the strains of a cheerful, rousing song… The little girl who had made every boy in the country fall in love with her when she played Alice in the old film was now quietly working as a biologist and merely smiled when she remembered her old romantic image.

  There were other names now. Makar, Ivan, Egor, Masha… It was an immutable law of nature-the worse things get in a country, the more it's trampled into the mud, the stronger the yearning for the old roots. For the old names, the old ways, the old rituals. But these Makars and Ivans were no worse. They were probably better, in fact. More serious, more single-minded, not shackled by any ideology or fake show of unity. They were much closer to us Dark Ones than all those Alisas, Seryozhas, and Slavas…

  But I still felt a bit slighted somehow, maybe because we hadn't been like that. Or maybe it was just because they were like that.

  "Are you just going to be here temporarily?" the boy asked, as serious as ever.

  "Yes. My friend's fallen ill. I'm going to take her place. But I'll try to come back again next year."

  Makar nodded. "Do, this is a good place we have here. I'm going to come next year too. I'll be fifteen then."

  Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I saw a brief sparkle in the little imp's eyes.

  "And after you're fifteen?"

  He shook his head and replied with obvious regret. "You can only come until you're sixteen. But anyway, at sixteen I'm going to go to Cambridge to study."

  I almost choked in surprise.

  "That's pretty expensive, Makar."

  "I know. It was all planned five years ago, don't worry." He had to be the son of one of those New Russians. They had everything planned in advance.

  "Well, that's doing things thoroughly. Are you going to stay there?"

  "No, what for? I'll get a decent education and come back to Russia."

  A very serious child. No doubt about it, these human beings sometimes threw up amusing types. It was a pity I couldn't test him for Other abilities right now… we could use kids like that.

  I followed my guide as he turned off the pathway and its square flagstones onto a narrow track.

  "This is a shortcut," the boy explained. "Don't worry, I know everything round here…"

  I followed him in silence-it was pretty dark, and I was relying on just my human abilities, but his white shirt was a reliable marker.

  "There, you see that light?" Makar asked, turning back to look at me. "You go straight toward that. I'm off now…"

  It seemed like the boy just wanted to play a trick on me… it was three hundred meters to the light through the dense growth of the park. He would have been able to boast to his friends about how he led the new teacher into the bushes and left her there…

  But Makar had no sooner taken a step off to the side than he caught his foot on something and fell with a cry of surprise. I didn't even feel like gloating-it was so funny.

  "Didn't you say you knew everything round here?" I couldn't resist asking.

  He didn't even answer, just breathed heavily through his nose as he rubbed his bruised and bleeding knee. I squatted down beside him and looked into his eyes:

  "You wanted to play a trick on me, didn't you?"

  The kid glanced at me and quickly turned his eyes away. He muttered, "I'm sorry…"

  "Do you play tricks like that on everyone?" I asked.

  "No…"

  "So why was I accorded such an honor?"

  It was a moment before he answered. "You looked like… you were very sure of yourself."

  "I should think so," I agreed simply. "I had some adventures on my way here. I was almost killed on the way-word of honor! But I got through it. So how am I supposed to look?"

  "I'm sorry…"

  All his seriousness and self-assurance had completely deserted him. As I squatted beside him I said, "Show me your knee."

  He took his hand away.

  Power. I know what it is. I could almost feel it, the Power pouring out of the boy: generated by the pain, the resentment, the shame-it was pure Power… I could almost take it-like any Dark Other, whose strength is people's weakness.

  Almost.

  But it wasn't what I actually needed. Makar sat there gritting his teeth and not making a sound. He wouldn't give way, and he held the Power inside himself. It was too much for me right now…

  I took a flashlight as slim as a pen out of my purse and switched it on.

  "It's nothing. Do you want me to put a Band-Aid on it?"

  "No, don't. It will be okay like that."

  "As you wish." I stood up and shone the flashlight around. Yes, it would have been difficult trying to find my way to that lighted window in the distance… "What now, Makar. Are you going
to run away? Or are you going to show me the way after all?"

  He got up without saying anything and set off, and I followed him. When we were already at the building, which turned out not to be small at all-it was a two-story mansion house with columns-Makar asked, "Are you going to tell the duty teacher?"

  "About what?" I laughed. "Nothing happened, did it? We just had a quiet stroll along the path…"

  He stood there sniffing loudly for a second, then repeated his apology, only this time far more sincerely: "I'm sorry. That was a stupid stunt I tried to pull."

  "Take care of that knee," I advised him. "Don't forget to wash it and dab it with iodine."

  Chapter four

  –«¦»-

  I COULD HEAR WATER SPLASHING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WALL-THE duty camp leader had excused himself and gone out to get washed after I woke him up. He'd been dozing peacefully to the hissing of a trashy Chinese tape recorder. I don't understand how anyone can possibly sleep to the sound of Vysotsky's songs, but I suppose that heap of junk wasn't fit for playing anything else.

  There'll be poems and math,

  Honors and debts, unequal battle…

  Today all the little tin soldiers

  Are lined up here on the old map.

  He should have kept them back in the barracks,

  But this is war, like any other war,

  And warriors in both armies fall

  In equal numbers on each side.

  "I'm done, sorry about that…" the duty leader said as he came out of the tiny shower room, still wiping his face with a standard-issue cotton waffle-cloth towel. "I was exhausted."

  I nodded understandingly. The tape recorder carried on playing, obligingly making Vysotsky's voice even hoarser than ever:

  Perhaps it's the gaps in their upbringing

  O r the weakness of their education?

  But neither one of the two

  Sides can win this long campaign.

  All these accursed problems of conscience:

  How not to do wrong in your own eyes?

  Here and there, the tin soldiers on both sides,

  How do we decide who ought to win…

  The duty leader frowned and turned the volume down so low I couldn't make out the words any longer. He held out his hand: "Pyotr."

  "Alisa."

  His grip was as firm as if he were shaking hands with a man. It immediately gave me a sense of distance: a strictly professional relationship…

  Well, that was fine. I didn't feel particularly inspired by this short, skinny man who looked like a juvenile himself. Naturally, I was intending to take a lover for the period of my vacation, but someone a bit younger and better looking would suit me better. Pyotr must have been at least thirty-five, and even without any Other abilities I could read him like an open book. An exemplary family man-in the sense that he was almost never unfaithful to his wife, and didn't drink or smoke much and devoted the appropriate amount of time to his children-or rather, his only child. A responsible man who loved his work, he could be trusted with a crowd of snot-nosed kids or teenage hooligans without any concern: He would wipe away the kids' snot, have a heart-to-heart talk with the hooligans, take away their bottle of vodka, lecture them on the harmfulness of smoking, and pile on the work, the play, and the morality.

  In other words, the perfect embodiment of the Light Ones' dream-not a living human being at all.

  "I'm very pleased to meet you," I said. "I've dreamed about working at Artek for so long. It's a shame it has to be under these circumstances…"

  Pyotr sighed. "Yes, it's a sad business. We're all very upset for poor Nastenka… Are you a friend of hers?"

  "No," I said and shook my head. "I was two years behind her in college. To be honest I can't really remember her face…"

  Pyotr nodded and began looking through my documents. I wasn't worried about meeting Nastya. She would probably remember my face-Zabulon is always very thorough about details. If there wasn't a single Other anywhere in Artek, then someone would have come from Yalta or Simferopol, stood close to Nastya for a moment or two… and now she would remember me.

  "Have you worked as a Pioneer leader before?"

  "Yes, but… not in Artek, of course."

  "That doesn't matter," Pyotr said with a shrug. "They have a staff of two thousand three hundred here, that's the only difference."

  The tone in which he pronounced these words seemed almost to contradict their meaning. He was proud of Artek, as proud as if he'd founded the camp himself; as if he'd personally fought off the fascists with a machine gun in his hands, built all the buildings and planted the trees.

  I smiled in a way that said: "I don't believe that, but I won't say anything out of politeness."

  "Nastya works in the Azure section," Pyotr said. "I'll take you there-it's already time for Nastya to get up anyway. Our bus goes to Simferopol at five… how did you get here, Alisa?"

  "There were no problems," I said. "I came by car."

  Pyotr frowned. "They ripped you off, I suppose?"

  "No, it was okay," I lied.

  "In any case, it's a bit risky," Pyotr added. "A beautiful young woman alone in a car at night with a stranger."

  "There were two of them," I said, "and they were absorbed in each other's company."

  Pyotr didn't understand. He sighed and said, "It's not for me to tell you how to behave, Alisa. You're an adult with a mind of your own. But don't forget that anything can happen! Artek is a kingdom of childhood, a realm of love, friendship, and justice. It's the one small thing that we have managed to preserve! But outside the camp… there are all sorts of people."

  "Yes, of course there are," I said repentantly. It was amazing how sincerely he pronounced those words full of inspired pathos! And how genuinely he believed in them.

  "Well, all right." Pyotr stood up and picked up my bag with an easy movement. "Let's go, Alisa."

  "I can manage on my own, just show me the way…"

  "Alisa!" he said with a reproachful shake of his head. "You'll get lost. The grounds here cover two hundred and fifty-eight hectares! Come on, let's go."

  "Yes, even Makar got a bit lost," I agreed.

  Pyotr was already in the doorway, but he swung round sharply at that: "Makar? The fifteen-year-old boy? Was he at the gate again?"

  I nodded, slightly confused.

  "I see…" Pyotr said dryly.

  We walked out into the warm summer night. It was already getting light. Pyotr took a flashlight out of his pocket, but he didn't switch it on. We set off along a path that led down, toward the seashore.

  "That Makar's a real problem," Pyotr remarked as we walked along.

  "Why's that?"

  "He doesn't need much sleep… that's the trouble." Pyotr laughed gloomily. "He's always running off to the guards at the gate, or to the sea, or even somewhere outside the grounds."

  "I thought he was on some kind of duty at the gate… A Young Pioneer post…" I surmised.

  "Alisa!"

  Pyotr was wonderful at making objections like that. He could express a whole gamut of emotions just by pronouncing a name.

  "Children ought to be asleep at night! Not standing guard duty… at the camp gates, at the eternal flame, or anywhere else… And all normal children do sleep at night-they wear themselves out horsing around before they go to bed. They can have fun here during the day…"

  Gravel began crunching beneath his feet as we turned off the paved pathway. I took off my sandals and walked on barefoot. It was a good feeling-the hard, smooth little stones under my feet…

  "If I wanted, I could give the guards a dressing-down," said Pyotr, thinking out loud. "Make them send the kid away. But what then? I can't tie him to his bed all night. It's better if he stays with adults, where he can be seen, than swimming alone in the sea at night…"

  "But why does he do that?"

  "He says he only needs three hours' sleep a day," said Pyotr, with a note of regret and pity in his voice. He was obviously on
e of those people who are more interesting to talk to on the phone or when it's dark-his face was boring, without much variety of expression, but the range of intonation in his voice! "And from the way he dashes around all day long, it must be true. But that's not the real problem…"

  "Then what is?" I asked, realizing that he was expecting a question.

  "He doesn't want to miss a moment of this summer, of Artek, of his childhood." Pyotr's tone was thoughtful now. "His first and last time at Artek, and what else has life ever given him?"

  "The first and last time? But the boy told me…"

  "He's from a children's home," Pyotr explained. "And he's already too old. It's not likely he'll be able to come here again. Nowadays, of course, a child can come to Artek any number of times, but only for money, and the charity sessions…"

  I actually dropped a step behind him.

  "From a children's home? But he was so convincing…"

  "They're all very convincing," Pyotr replied calmly. "He probably said something really impressive, didn't he? His parents are in business, he comes to Artek three times a year and this fall he's going to Hawaii… They want to believe it all, so they fantasize. The little ones do it all the time, the older ones not so often. But I expect he took a liking to you."

  "I wouldn't have said so."

  "At that age they still can't express it when they like someone," Pyotr informed me very seriously. "Love and hate are easy to confuse in any case, and for a child… And you know Alisa… just one comment…"

  "Yes?"

  "You're a very beautiful girl, but this is a children's camp after all, with quite a few older boys. I'm not asking you not to wear makeup and all that, but… Try not to wear that miniskirt. It really is too short."

  "It's not the skirt that's short," I replied innocently. "It's my legs that are long."

  Pyotr squinted sideways at me and shook his head reproachfully.

  "Sorry, I was joking," I said quickly. "Of course I won't wear it. I've got jeans, shorts, and even a long skirt. And my swimming costume is very modest!"

  We walked on in silence.

  I don't know what Pyotr was thinking about. Maybe he was wondering if I was suitable for educational work. Maybe he was feeling sorry about the boy in his care. Maybe he was pondering the imperfection of the world. That would have been like him.